


Shoot To Thrill

by fannyvonfabulus



Category: Jeremy Renner - Fandom
Genre: Car Porn, F/M, Light Bondage, More classic rock, Smut, Sub/Dom-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 04:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannyvonfabulus/pseuds/fannyvonfabulus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re a Formula One driver (that’s right); he’s been invited to the circuit by your team sponsor for the weekend.  He’s not like the usual ‘celebrities’ that you usually have to put up with over a race weekend.  </p>
<p>You like him and as ever, YOU’RE in the driving seat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shoot To Thrill

**Author's Note:**

> I love fast cars. I REALLY love fast cars. Was listening to some AC/DC in the car last night and this idea just kinda sprang into my brain. Spa-Francochamps in Belgium is my fav racing circuit (been there many a time) and the AC Shelby Cobra has been on my wish list since i was about 5 years old.
> 
> As with pretty much everything I write, this ficlet has its own soundtrack so, may I suggest that you check out the playlist I made of all the songs I envisaged whilst writing this: http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLegJcKDrBWtIMr0KQZAm_UwteY2zrbVDh
> 
> Lastly, my humblest thanks to my beta Jess (bennysemma) as yet again she managed to wrangle this mess into something readable.

 “She’s still pulling to the left,” You shout into your helmet radio as you turn the car down the pit lane and speed back to the garage.  “Fucks sake Denny, I thought you fixed this? I’m bringing her in.” 

You hear mutterings from your chief mechanic in your earpiece and roll your eyes as you turn the nose of the car into the garage and cut the engine.  The rest of the mechanics push the car inside and you take off the steering wheel to get out.  Pulling off your crash helmet as you step out, you run a rough, irritated hand through your hair as you storm over to Denny.  Your mouth is opening to begin your frustrated and explicative-ridden tirade, but a hand around your arm stops you cold; the rep from your lead sponsor is giving you a desperate look.

“Sweetheart, we have company,” he hisses through a forced smile, glancing over his left shoulder towards the small group of people standing behind him.  You roll your eyes again—now is _NOT_ the time for a garage walk-about by a bunch of celebrities and hangers on.

“Now, Dan? _Really_? You want to do this _now_?” you hiss back before snatching your arm out of his grip.  “And call me fucking _sweetheart_ again…”

Dan flashes his forced smile at you some more and his eyes are begging you to calm the fuck down.  The last time you caused a scene in the pit garage in front of the sponsor’s guests, you’d been chewed out by your manager AND the team boss. 

It hadn’t been pretty. 

“Fine.” You sigh, closing your eyes for a brief moment—Lord give you strength—before fixing your cheesiest smile into place.  Dan nods in thanks and shows you over to his visitors.  They’re the usual bunch: the daughter of one of the Team Directors, all tits and arse and bleached hair.  You recognise a journalist for one of the big racing magazines: he’s OK.  And then there’s the lead singer of some boy band using his platinum selling voice to fulfil his childhood dream of being in a Formula One garage.   You smile and joke that your hands are dirty from a day on the track so shaking hands probably isn’t a good idea.  They laugh merrily and you wish the ground would just open up and swallow you so you wouldn’t have to deal with this shit. 

And you’re sure that boy band singer is trying to hit on you. 

You get that a lot, being the only woman doing your job.  Within the first week of making your appearance in the big league of Formula One, every driver with a dick—i.e, _every other driver_ —had tried to sleep with you.  Even the married ones.  Some of them were attractive, even down-right sexy, but you weren’t about to act on it.  You’d worked fucking hard to get to where you were, and you weren’t about to have that tainted by stories about you sleeping with the other drivers. 

You smile sweetly at the singer and carry on with Dan’s Meet & Greet. 

God you hated these people and the time they wasted. 

You had shit to do.

The last member of the little party however, is different to the others.  He’s standing behind your engineers, watching them closely as they carefully dissect the front end of the car.  And he’s not just casually observing. He’s paying attention. 

REALLY paying attention. 

None of the people Dan brings down to the pit garage is ever interested in the car.  He’s a pleasant change from the norm and you recognise him instantly when you see him.

“Mr Renner,” you say, your smile now genuine as you extend a hand for him to shake, not thinking about wiping off the filth covering your palm and fingers.

He beams at you with that slightly lopsided smile of his as he turns from the car to take your hand in his huge one, not even noticing that yours is covered in axel grease.  “Please, call me Jer.” His eyes crease at the corners as he smiles at you; his hand is warm and his handshake is firm, none of that limp-wristed bullshit.  “Just watching your guys do their thing.”

“By all means,” you grin back as his smiling blue-green eyes turn back to the car to watch the experts at work.  “She was pulling to the left a little.  Been a problem since we got here a few days ago.  We’re trying to figure it out before practice tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t even know where to start on a car like this,” he laughs and it’s a glorious sound: deep, a little husky and infectious.            

“Not many people would,” you agree as you both watch your mechanics at work.  The front end of the car is now completely off and Jeremy is watching each guy at their individual task.  “I’m just paid to drive.”

“And you’re one helluva driver,” he replies, his face suddenly more serious as he looks at you again.  “Given that you’ve only been in the car for half a season and have already won seven of the nine races.  But then you’ve been a test driver for four different teams over the last six years, so I guess I can’t really call it Rookie’s luck!”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr Renner,” you retort, smirking as he lists your accomplishments.

You’re impressed. 

He knows his stuff. 

You turn to Dan and say: “Hey Dan!  I like this one - he can stay!”

The other garage guests laugh, as does Dan albeit a little nervously.  He’s still convinced you’re moments away from exploding at one of the engineers.  He begins to usher the others towards the hospitality trailer which sits across a wide walkway opposite the pit garage.  Well, it’s not really a trailer.  More like a flat pack five-star hotel.  It just happens to fit in the back of a trailer.

“D’ya mind if I stay a little longer?” Jeremy asks as he watches the others leave.  Dan seems to have forgotten about him. 

Either that or he took you literally when you said that he could stay.

“Go for it,” you smile, unzipping the outer layer of your overalls to let the air in.  “Just don’t touch anything.”

“It’s your garage, ma’am!” he chuckles again, giving you a salute. You smile at him before heading off to your trailer to get out of your race gear and take a shower.

 

**                        **                        **                        **                        **                        **                       

A little under an hour later, you’re showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a tight, bright pink sponsor’s t-shirt. The colour makes you grind your teeth—you’re a _female_ racing driver, yeah, everyone gets it—but it’d been the only clean t-shirt in the trailer so you’d begrudgingly put it on.  Now all you want to do is get out of there and go for a drive.  A proper drive in your baby; no engineers evaluating your every move, no team sponsors and best of all, no hangers-on.  The area around the Spa race circuit is mostly woodland and empty roads: a driver’s paradise. People wave as you walk towards the car park, calling out greetings. You smile and wave back, even stop to sign some autographs and make polite chit-chat, but you’re so anxious to get behind the wheel you’re starting to shake a bit. 

When you finally reach the secure lot reserved for team members and sponsors, you let out a long sigh and feel the tension slide out of you. There she is. Your baby. She’s a Shelby AC Cobra 427; curves in all the right places, her royal blue paintwork gleaming in the late afternoon sunshine, fat chrome exhaust just begging to be heard.  You trace a finger over her flared wheel arches and a smile creeps across your face.  She’s got no roof and you love nothing more than speeding along empty roads with the wind whipping your hair around your face as you eat up the miles.

Nothing calms you like a car and no car calms you quite like she does. 

“Come on baby girl, let’s go for a spin,” you croon at her as you jump into the cream leather of the driver’s seat.  Turning the key, the engine roars to life, deep and guttural; a hint of oil and leaded petrol perfumes the air and you breathe deeply, loving the scent. Its a smell sorely lacking in the pit garage these days.  You let her tick over to warm up a bit—there’s no need to rush now that you’re finally behind the wheel—and once she’s thrumming nicely, you shift the gear stick into first and floor it. 

With a screech of tyres, you’re headed out of the car park and along the walkway between the pit garages and hospitality trailers.  Up ahead, you spot Jeremy finally coming out of your garage, looking a little lost without Dan to show him where to go.  Changing down a gear to make the exhaust roar louder, you scream to a halt next to him, engine of the car growling as you peer at him over the top of your sunglasses.

“Fancy a beer?” You ask, the side of your mouth curling upwards in a slight smirk as you give the engine a rev; the car sounds almost as impatient to be out on the road as you are.  He grins at you and, with a nod, jumps nimbly into the passenger seat.  You floor the gas again and speed off in a cloud of tyre smoke as you head for the gates of the circuit.

“Is she yours?” he shouts over the throatiness of the exhaust as you shift up a gear, narrowly avoiding running over a circuit marshal as you careen out of the front gates and onto the country roads of the surrounding landscape.

“Uh-huh!” You nod and shift up another gear, the motion already beginning to wash away the stress of a day working in the F1 car.  There was something about driving a manual car and the action of changing gear.  As you lovingly pull the gear stick back towards you whilst your left foot stamps down on the clutch, the calmness starts to envelop you.  With another stamp of the gas and with the wind in your hair, the last of the day’s irritations dissipate and it’s just you and the car. 

And Jeremy.

You’ve almost forgotten that he was there.

He’s looking relaxed as you speed along the deserted road at well above the legal speed limit.  Most men hated being the passenger in your car and would sit scared stiff in the seat next to you, gripping either the dashboard or your leg in terror.  That, of course, only made you drive faster, laughter usually spilling out of your mouth as you tried to frighten them further. 

But not Jeremy.

He didn’t seem to mind or care that you’re breaking the speed limit by about 60 miles an hour. As the speedometer levels out at 100mph he simply tilts his head back, soaking up the sun, apparently enjoying the crap out of the ride. It’s nice to have an appreciative passenger in the car for once and as you expertly take each twist and turn in the road, you’re also grateful that he’s not trying to talk to you over the rush of the wind and the roar of the engine.  He just sits back and allows you to blow of some steam.

Eventually, the neighbouring town comes into view and, just to show off and just because you can, you pull a handbrake turn into the car park of a bar and restaurant that’s perched on a hill overlooking the race circuit.  You can hear the faint noise of cars down on the track, the sound echoing around the Belgian countryside like the rumble of distant thunder.

“Impressive,” Jer grins as he climbs out of the car.

“Thanks,” you grin back as you hop out into the fading cloud of dust that you kicked up doing the turn into the car park.  He follows you into the bar and you buy a couple of beers, taking them out onto the veranda that overlooks the circuit.  You’ll only have the one seeing as tomorrow is the start of the racing weekend proper.

“So, where did you get her?” Jeremy asks as he takes in the view.

“Found her in a scrap yard,” you answer succinctly before launching into the story of how you’d been looking for a project to help you wind down after a day on the track. When you’d found the empty shell of the car, you’d known instantly what it was. You describe the hours and hours that you and your father had spent in the garage, slowly piecing the car back together; painstakingly tracking down genuine, vintage parts so that she was completely authentic. He listens attentively as you talk, the late afternoon sunshine becoming an early evening sunset that turns his wind-ruffled hair a hazy golden colour. 

“You really love that car, don’t you?” he questions eventually, a soft smile lighting up his eyes.

You nod. “There’s a lot of heart in her,” you reply wistfully.  “My day job involves driving what is, essentially, a computer on four wheels, rather than actual bare bones mechanics.  After a day on the track, I jump in the Cobra and go for a blast.  There’s something almost primal about being in charge of an animal so basic and raw.”

“You like being in charge, then?” he asks, his eyes glinting slightly.  You’re not 100% sure, but you get the feeling he wants you to read between the lines. 

“Don’t you?”

“Depends on who’s driving.”

 

********

The next day, you're back at the track as your mechanics prep the car for the first official practice.  You’re sitting in the car, crash helmet on, getting into the zone while the engineers hunch over their laptops, putting the car through its virtual paces.  Checking oil pressure, engine temperature, tyre pressure and suspension; the same diligent routine that precedes every practice, ensuring both optimal performance and safety. 

You flex your hands in their protective gloves, itching to get out on the track.  There's another group of pit lane visitors, one of which is Jeremy.  You'd had a great time at the bar restaurant the night before, flirting with each other and joking.  You'd made it perfectly clear to him that you were interested.  Also made clear?  The fact that you usually got what you wanted.  Dropping him off at his hotel, you’d teased him with the possibility of a kiss only to deny him with a self-satisfied grin, then sped back to your trailer at the race track.  

And there he was, standing in the pit garage, arms folded across his chest as he watched the mechanics' frenzied last minute preparations on the car.  He glances over at you and gives you one of his eye-crinkling grins; you smile back, but your helmet and flame-proof cowl only expose your eyes.  He gives you one of his salutes as the mechanics lower the car to the ground and start it up.  It roars into life—a raw, ear piercing scream—and then they push you out of the garage and into the pit line.  You give Jeremy a nod, flip your visor down and get to work.

 ************ 

After practice, you're pleased.  The car had driven like a dream, completely outclassing all the others on the track.  You hadn't even pushed it, knowing that there was still qualifying the next day and the actual race the day after that.  Whatever your engineers had done during their over-night repair had worked.  Climbing out of the car, you can’t help the smug expression on your face. You receive pats on the back from everyone in the garage and you allow yourself to bask in the moment a little.  Bringing your A-game every single time you’re behind the wheel is hard, but necessary; a lot of people would jump at the chance to discredit you, to turn you into a joke. The driver whose only there because she’s got a great set of tits. But no. You prove you damn well deserve to be exactly where you are. 

Letting out a contented sigh and running a hand through your slightly sweaty hair, you look around for Jeremy.  He’s nowhere to be seen. You're a little disappointed but you're sure he's probably just in the hospitality trailer.  Dan soon distracts you by introducing you to the new batch of pit lane visitors and the day passes in a blur of press meetings, team strategy sessions and dinner with the sponsors. 

************ 

You’d qualified in pole position, so you’re now sitting at the front of the pack on the grid for the actual race, waiting for the lights to all turn green.  These few seconds on the grid are always the tensest.  They can also be the most dangerous.  Anything can happen at the start of a race and you've been witness to some horrific accidents off the start.  But you're out in front and you intend to stay there.   Jeremy was down on the grid before you climbed into the car.  He came to wish you luck and his hand had lingered on your arm longer than was usual; the material of your overalls is quite thick, but you swear you’d felt the heat of his hand through them.  He said he'd be waiting for you at the finish and there had been something else in his eyes as he'd said it.  A glint of a raw hunger for you and you wonder if he's only increased your desire to win the race.  

There's no time to dwell on it now as the lights begin to turn green one by one.  You hold your breath, grip your hands tighter on the steering wheel and engage first gear, revving the engine.

Three.....

Two....

One......

You scream off the start with a puff of tyre smoke off the back wheels and concentrate on the first corner.   

************ 

You emerge from the winner’s press conference, tired but jubilant. You’d won by miles; completely in the zone for the entire race, no one else had even come close to beating you.  Sticky from all the champagne they’d poured over you on the podium, and sweaty from two intense hours behind the wheel in your overalls, you desperately want a shower.  Your eyes are bloodshot with tiredness, but you take the time to receive all the congratulatory gestures coming your way; the shouts of triumph from the pit crew and the handshakes from the sponsors on the way back to your trailer.  

The other effect that winning always has on you is it makes you horny as hell.  The rush of crossing the finish line first, the two hours in a machine built for speed and power that's completely under your control and being the only woman on the grid up against a field of all men.  

It gets you going. 

 Jeremy is waiting for you when you get there, his smile wide as you wander over. 

“Nicely done!” he says as you get to the door. 

“I know,” you drawl, trying not to look as smug as you feel.  “Thought you'd be schmoozing in the sponsor's hospitality trailer.” 

“I wanted to congratulate you properly,” he replies in a low growl, looking appreciatively at your champagne sodden overalls. 

“Well, you'd best come in then,” you say, opening the door of your trailer and letting him follow you in. While he's looking around, you lock the door behind you both. 

It's not a typical trailer.  This one is custom built and no expense has been spared.  There's a leather sofa, a fully fitted kitchen, a bar area and at the back, a huge bedroom with a proper king-sized solid oak bed next to a large en suite bathroom. 

“Holy shit!” he remarks, his eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings.  “I need to start demanding one of these fuckers when I'm on set!” 

You smile as you begin to unzip your overalls, eager to discard the dirty, sweaty, booze-sodden garment.  He reaches out a hand to stop you before taking the zip in his own fingers. 

“Why don't you let me do that?” voice sounding almost like a purr; ever so slowly, he lowers the zip before pushing the top half off your shoulders and over your arms.  He then kneels and unlaces your racing boots before pulling them off your feet.  Standing up again, he tugs at the flameproof under layer that fits snugly to your torso and you raise your arms up so that he can pull it off over your head.  The champagne has soaked through and as the layer is removed, leaving you in nothing but your bra, you can feel how sticky your skin is now the air has got to it.  He runs a hand lightly across your collarbone and you shiver a little at his touch.  He watches your face as he feels the goose bumps rise on your skin under his fingers.  He takes in the bloodshot eyes, the dirt marks from the gap in your crash helmet and your mess of hair. 

“You’re one hot fucking mess after a race, y'know that?” he rumbles, his face just a whisper from yours. 

“I know,” you reply for a second time before bringing a hand up to the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss.  A hot, urgent kiss.  He's a little startled at first but soon he's wrapping his arms around you and pulling your body against him to return your kiss.  Teeth and tongue clash as you grip his hair in your fist, your nails digging in to the back of his skull.  He growls a little and grips your back with his long, thick fingers.  

 You begin to push him backwards towards the bedroom at the back of the trailer, still devouring him with your lips and tongue.  The back of his legs meet the foot of the bed and you break away from him long enough to push him back onto it.  He flops back onto the covers and smirks up at you mischievously, licking his lips.  His eyes rake up and down your body as you stand over him; you swear you can feel the path his gaze takes over your skin, hot and tingling and full of promise.  When his eyes return to yours they’re absolutely smoldering, and they hold you in place with their intensity as he slowly sits up.  He’s level with your breasts, which are glistening and sticky with champagne.  His hands come up to your sides, settling on your hips, where your overalls are still valiantly clinging to your body. 

He continues to gaze at you a moment longer before ducking his head to run his tongue over your stomach, licking and kissing your alcohol and sweat-soaked skin. He circles your bellybutton before making his way lazily up to your breasts.  His hands work their way behind you and unclasp your bra in one, swift motion.  It falls away and you toss it to the floor, leaving yourself exposed and completely available to him.  His licking moves slowly upward and you wrap your fingers in his hair, guiding him to your right nipple.  He sucks you in slowly, flicking and rolling his tongue against you until you're standing hard and proud in his mouth.  He moves to your other breast and does the same and you arch into him as his mouth works its magic.  His hands move down to push the rest of your overalls off your hips but you stop him. 

“Nu-uh,” you murmur and push his hands away. 

He grins against you, continuing his licking and nibbling and slides a finger under the waistband of your panties.  You pull his hand away again. 

“Do as you're told, Mr. Renner,” you reprimand. 

“No.” He pouts and tries to push his hand back down inside again. 

“Yes,” you reply, taking his wrist and removing his hand again before taking his chin between your thumb and finger and tilting his head up to meet your eyes.  He cocks his head to one side, a questioning look in his blue-green eyes. 

“But I want to feel you,” he pouts harder. 

“I'm driving,” you say to him, a filthy smile spreading across your face. 

You climb into the middle of the bed and sit on your heels facing him.  A crook of your finger beckons him to you; you pat the bed in front of you, showing him where you want him, and he obeys swiftly, kneeling in front of you.  He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and all kinds of race passes hang around his neck.  You pull them up and over his head before throwing them over the side of the bed.  

“Won't be needing those for a while,” you say as he watches them disappear towards the floor.  You then tug his t-shirt up his body to expose his beautifully toned, caramel torso.  His t-shirt follows his race passes to the floor and you bite your bottom lip, humming appreciatively as you drink him in.  He grins in reply and reaches out to try to get your overalls off.  “Nuh-uh,” you once again deny him, batting his hand away. He smirks and tries again—he’s quite a determined bastard—but gets the same response. “Hands off.”  

“Bu-” he starts and you silence him with a look.  He purses his lips together and drops his hand back to his side.  

“Better,” you smile at him and start running your fingers over his chest.  His eyes watch you intently as you lick your lips.  His hands go to the belt of his jeans and begin to unbuckle it.  “I told you, hands off,” you scold and he stops, his eyes amused but curious.   

“I was just....”            

“Ssshhh!” you interject, cutting him off before he can finish. “Now stay here.”  

You clamber off the bed and Jeremy's eyes follow you as you disappear back into the living area of the trailer.  You come back with something behind your back and he's where you left him, half naked but propped up against the headboard.  You stand at the end of the bed and from behind your back pull out a pair of canvas fasteners, the ones used to keep to tyre warmers on the tyres of your race car.  

 “If you're not going to keep your hands off then I shall have to restrain you,” you say sweetly.  His eyes flash at you and his face takes on a darker tone as he realizes what you have in mind.  But he doesn't protest.  Instead, he smiles that filthy smile of his and arches an eyebrow at you in challenge.  

“Oh yeah?” he quips, tipping his chin upwards in mock defiance as you crawl towards him on the bed.  

 “Yeah,” you reply, stopping in front of him.  “If you're not going to do as you're told, then I shall have teach you a lesson.”  

“And how do you plan on doing that?” His voice low and throaty as he looks at you.  

“Stop asking questions Mr. Renner,” you purr, your face inches from his.  “I told you to be quiet.”  

“Make me,” he challenges in a low growl as he pushes his face closer to yours, his eyes glinting at you.  You know now that he's completely OK with what you have planned and it’s your turn to smirk.  His arms are folded across his chest and his jaw is still tilted towards you.  You crawl further up the bed with a leg either side of his own that are crossed at the ankles out in front of him. Once you're straddling him, you sit back onto his thighs to look at him.  You're more than aware that he's ten times stronger than you are and could easily overpower you if he wanted to.  At this precise moment, however, it appears he doesn’t mind handing over control.  You reach for one of his wrists and he watches you put a canvas tie around it and tighten the strap.  It’s not so tight that it’ll be painful, just enough to hold him securely and to be pleasantly uncomfortable.  

His eyes follow you as you stretch out his arm and lash it to one of the solid wooden bedposts behind me. He tests it by taking the strap in his free hand and pulling. It doesn’t budge.  You tie his other arm in place and then sit back on his thighs again to watch him strain against both the restraints.  

He's not going anywhere.  

“Very good,” he smirks at you.  

“This isn’t my first time Mr. Renner.”  

“Bad girl,” he breathes, spearing you with another intense stare.  

“Oh, you have no idea.”  You smile sweetly before climbing off him to stand at the foot of the bed.  A look briefly crosses his face as for a split second he thinks you might be about to leave him there like that.  You stand for a moment and watch several other thoughts go through his mind before you slowly peel off your overalls, leaving you in nothing but a pair of panties.  Seeing him lying there against the pillows, restrained and completely at your mercy, is just delicious.    
You’re going to have such fun with him.  

You crawl back up the bed to sit on his thighs again.   

“Now, where to start?” you ponder, head cocked to one side as you trail a finger from the waistband of his jeans up his stomach.   

“I can think of a few places,” he smirks.   

“Mr. Renner, what did I tell you about being quiet?”   

“Mama, you only tied up my arms, not my fucking mouth,” he shoots back and you silence him with a finger against his lips.  Leaning over the edge of the bed, you reach down and pick up the thin, flame-retardant scarf you wear under your overalls. You twirl both ends around your hands, pulling it taut, and arch an eyebrow at him.   

“OK, I'll be quiet,” he murmurs.   

“You expect me to believe that?”   

He doesn't answer but instead opens his mouth slightly, silently telling you that it's OK, and you put the scarf in his mouth and tie it behind his head.   

“There, that's better,” you say silkily, sitting back and observing your handiwork.  “If you won't do as you're told, I'll just have to make you, won't I?”   

“Mmmrhrgvglbhsbfk...” he says against the cotton of the scarf.   

“I'm sorry, what was that?” you ask, straining your ear towards him.  He doesn't reply, just furrows his brow; you can tell from him eyes, though, that he’s enjoying himself.  “That's what I thought.  Now, where was I? Oh yes, where to begin…” You run your hands over his bare chest and his abdomen tightens.  “Here?”  His eyes flash at you again.  You then run your fingers along his arms, taut as he pulls against the canvas restraints.  “Or here?” Your fingers trace back down his torso towards the waistband of his jeans before you slide them over the front and feel how hard he is, straining against the denim.  “Or perhaps here?”   

“Fuckkbbbnsdlbnsirbg...” he grunts against the scarf, continuing to struggle against the ties as you stroke him through his jeans.             

“If you don't learn to sit still and be quiet, Mr. Renner, I won't be starting anywhere,” you reprimand and he stops moving.  You bring your hands back up to his chest and trace the muscles with your fingertips.  He shivers a little under your touch.  His skin is smooth as silk and you marvel at the feel of him.  He squirms a little as you run your fingers down his sides – he's obviously a little ticklish.  You do it again and he squirms harder although he's trying not to in case you scold him again.  You feel his thighs underneath you tightening as he tries to remain still and you wonder if you should have retrained his legs as well.  Having this powerful man squirming under your fingertips feels good.             

Really good.   

You lower your lips to his chest and brush them across his skin.  He's warm and smooth and you inhale deeply as you leave a trail of feather light kisses up towards his neck.  He moans as you reach his ear and slowly suck his earlobe into your mouth before taking it in your teeth and pulling a little.  Letting him go, you carry on down along his collarbone towards his arm.    

His wonderful, taut, muscular arm.    

God his arms…   

You've been dreaming about those arms since you met him two days ago.    

The flexing muscles and prominent veins.   

You've imagined them doing all sorts of torrid things to you.   

And now they're retrained and all yours.   

You feel how powerful they are as you trace one of his veins with your tongue and he tightens the muscles under your assault.  And then you do something you've wanted to do ever since you'd seen him in your garage.             

You sink your teeth into his forearm and chew.   

It’s not enough to hurt but enough to make him squirm again.  You open your mouth as wide as it will go and chew on him.  You sneak a sideways look at him and his eyes are smiling with slight disbelief as well as amusement.  You shrug lightly and carry on until you reach his wrist where the restraint is tied.  You kiss him gently there; small, tender kisses and his arm relaxes a little.  You smile against his skin and make your way back towards his neck before starting to travel down across his chest to his stomach.  His abdomen tightens as you lick and nip your way across his flesh towards the top of his jeans.  His eyes follow you as you go and you leave small kisses across his stomach just above the denim.  Sighing and sitting up, you pop open the top button.   

“You're being so good, I think I might just...” You pull open the next button.   

Then the next.   

And the next.   

You gasp.   

“Mr. Renner! You're not wearing any underwear, you bad boy!”   

You see him grin against the scarf and pull open the rest of the buttons on his fly before pulling off his jeans.   

And there he is.   

Gloriously naked and tied to the bed.   

Sitting back, you drink in the sight of him: cock straining upwards, his stomach muscles quivering slightly, his eyes unashamedly confident. He’s quite something.   

“Oh, the fun I'm going to have with you…” you breathe, shivering with anticipation; his eyes follow the motion of your tongue as you lick your lips. You reach forward and gently run your fingertips along his length and he shudders a little, pulling against the restraints again.  You wrap your hand around him and slowly start to move up and down.  He feels wonderful and you can't help licking your lips again.  He moans quietly at you, fighting to keep his eyes open as they keep threatening to flutter shut.  Taking your hand from him for a moment, you lick your palm before going back to stroking him lazily.  Your other hand, almost without you realizing it, has disappeared into your panties and you're absentmindedly stroking your clit.  Jeremy's eyes don't know where to look: the hand you’re using to pleasure yourself, or the one that’s wrapped around him.   

“You look like you'd taste as good as you feel,” you purr; shifting backwards a little you get up onto your knees, arse in the air, and lower your mouth to his straining cock.  You start by flattening out your tongue and running it from his base to the tip, wanting to taste as much of him at once as you can.  His thigh twitches underneath you and you glance upwards to see him watching you.  You do it again, this time keeping eye contact and he groans at you, his eyelids heavy.  As he watches, you take more of him into your mouth, moaning softly as you do so.   

He does taste as good as he felt.   

You greedily swallow as much of him as you can, keeping your tongue flat against him.  Pulling back, you groan as you flick your tongue over the tip of his cock.  The veins on his arms are more raised than you've ever seen them as he strains against the canvas restraints. You revel in the fact that you have him completely at your mercy.  Just like you have the car under your control when you're behind the wheel, all that power and rawness at your command.  You flick your tongue over the head again and he moans against the scarf in his mouth.  He's desperate to touch you, you can see that, but you aren't going to let him loose for a good while yet.  Plus, you're not sure that the bed could handle it if you untie him, judging by the look in his eyes.    

 Just as it feels like he's about to tip over the edge, you stop abruptly and he groans against the scarf, his eyes pleading with you to carry on.  You shake your head at him with a smirk and he growls deep in the back of his throat with dark, flashing eyes.   

“My turn,” you purr and stand up to take off your panties, your aching, wet cunt just inches from his face.  His eyes follow you and then your underwear as you throw them to one side before straddling him again.  You pinch your nipples, pulling gently, groaning as you tease yourself.   He whimpers and tries the restraints again, more frantic this time as he watches you hungrily.  With one hand on your breast, your other snakes down to your throbbing pussy and your fingers disappear inside you.  You gasp and Jeremy groans as he watches the progress of your hand.  Withdrawing your fingers, you bring them to your mouth and suck them in, moaning softly and letting your eyes flutter shut.   

“Hpojnjbeblennrt...” he moans through the scarf; he’s really fighting against the restraints now.  “Jsjrjnndj fuuuckmsnnido PUSSGVQBBEKVL!!”   

“Carry on making noise and all you'll be doing is watching,” you breathe as you move your fingers back in between your legs.  His eyes widen as he watches you stroke a finger across your clit.  Through half-closed eyes, you think that if he pulls any harder, he'll snap the bedposts in half.    

“Oh, did you want this Mr. Renner?” you manage to murmur, bringing your fingers up to your mouth again and swirling your tongue around them as you feel the waves start to pool deep in your abdomen; you force yourself to hold back for a little longer.  He nods furiously as your hips find their rhythm, rising and falling against his thighs as he looks on helplessly.    

“How about if I…” You shift forwards until his straining cock is pressed up against your wet folds.  He moans and wrinkles his forehead before looking into your eyes with his blue-green ones, pleading with you to untie him.  “Not yet,” you deny him, shamelessly rubbing yourself up and down his length, forcing a louder moan from him.   

You're so close now.    

And you want him inside you.   

You shift forwards and up a little, bracing yourself with your hands on his chest and slowly ease the tip of him inside you, shivering at the feeling.  A sound of pure pleasure escapes your lips as you sink down, taking all of him up to the hilt.  You feel yourself open to take him in and then contract around him, holding him there.  He's whimpering against the scarf, his hips jerking slightly.  Both of you are so close to tipping over, but you want to last just a little longer.   

Long enough to fuck him.   

Hard.   

You shift from your knees to your feet so you're almost crouching over him and start to steadily move up and down his length, completely dictating the pace and aggressiveness.    

All he can do is try to keep up.             

“Fuck that feels good,” you moan as you start to fuck him harder.  You dig your nails into his shoulders as you start to feel the burn in your thighs and the sweat begins to trickle in between your breasts.  He's grunting and growling against the scarf in his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as you began to slam yourself onto him; they're full of hunger and amazement.    

And the desire to be ungagged.   

“Tell me what you want to do to me,” you gasp, ripping the fabric from his mouth.    

“I'm going to fuck you into next year as soon as I'm loose,” he growls. “I'm going to fucking ruin you.  You're not going to be able to walk for a fucking week when I'm through with you.”   

  “Fuck yes!” you almost whimper, increasing your speed as his hips match yours.  Your nails dig into his shoulders as you take what you want from him and he's right there with you, thrust for thrust.   

“I'm going to fuck you until you hate that sweet little pussy of yours,” he carries on. “And then I'm going to fuck you some more.”   

And with that, you scream as you come harder than you ever have in your life and you don't care who hears you.  Your back arches as you throw your head back, nails digging even deeper into his shoulders as you practically tear at his skin.  Every sinew in your body stiffens as wave after wave of sparks and pure ecstasy wash over you.    

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he gasps as you clamp down around him and he comes with a shout, almost ripping his shoulders out the sockets as he pulls against the restraints holding him in place. You let out a triumphant bark of laughter before slumping against him, dripping with sweat, your breath coming in rasps.  You bury your face in his neck, your heart pounding in your chest.  Your thighs are throbbing and shaking and you're glad you don't have to drive the following day because you know your legs are going to hurt in the morning.   

When your pulse has almost returned to normal, you manage to lift your head to look at Jeremy.   His eyes are heavy lidded, sleepy but satisfied, and he's sweating almost as much as you.             

“Now that's how you fucking celebrate winning a race,” you manage to murmur, slowly dragging yourself upright so you can untie him.  He flexes his arms, circling them at the shoulder, the veins so prominent now after all the fighting against the restraints.  He lifts you off him and you sprawl across his chest, your skin slick with sweat and champagne sliding deliciously across him.   

“Seeing as how you keep winning, I'll have to make sure I'm around,” he smirks as he pulls your leg up to lie across his hips.  “And next time,  _I'm_  driving.” 


End file.
